


ísmere

by hedgerowhag



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bring to me, before my leave, the purple blossoms of the violet flower and unto you I shall bless my love.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man is a Fickle Child

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: ‘The 12 Months’, ‘The Nightingale and the Rose’, the lang is slightly borrowed from ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’. 
> 
> Title translation from Old English:  
> -ísmere - lake/mere covered in ice
> 
> Fuck knows why I wrote this. But tbh I noticed that there are many role-reversed, species-swapped fics out there for this ship and I developed a might need – alas this bullshittery was written. I didn’t intend it to be this fluffy but after writing so much dark original material I just need something to brighten up the gloom – ya know what I mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I redrafted this fic on 09/01/16 (that's 01/09/16 if you're an ammmmuuurrriicceeen) and made some major changes throughout the text, just so everyone is aware!

A harsh winter had come over the castle of Mirkwood, scolding the lustrous land with its frosted fingers, leaving nothing but the white trenches and the black bark of the trees. None dared to tread into that harsh world beyond the castle battlements, even the guards were given leave from their posts. The farmlands remained barren, the tools of ploughing left on the fields abandoned. There was not a hush of sound for leagues about.

What a harsh land, what a frightening decaying place amongst the plagued woods for a lady such as the Baron’s daughter, wondered the prince – Thranduil, the first in line for the throne of Mirkwood. The Baron's daughter arrived one late autumn evening and from that day on Thranduil spent many hours woefully proposing to the maiden for he was bewitched. It was not a secret that the prince's mind was fogged with love for the maiden, his heart sold to her fair hands. She was all but warmth and radiance upon her first arrival; her cheeks were flushed with the frost, snowflakes caught on the trim of her hood and the golden ringlets of her rich hair. The handmaids stole away after her, like lost ducklings, skittish at her ankles.

The girls had scolded the prince away the first time he proposed to the Baron’s daughter. As her pups scowled at her suitor she merely laughed behind her fair hands. Though the prince himself was the handsomest of the noble kindred from all about the land, the Baron’s daughter was sure to show him not favour. Thranduil had been certain there to be no coldness in the fair maiden’s eyes, for mirth was her constant companion. O what a lovely creature had she been, like a fey child of the woods donned in the riches of the heavenly lords – surely only the stuff of the gleeful summer tales could compare to one such as she.

The prince had intended to earn the girl’s love before the turn of the seasons stole her from his keep and one day in the winter quiet of the library chambers Thranduil took the maiden’s hands into his own and asked what she wished of him in return for a say upon the love she shared. But the fair coy girl smiled and replied as thus:

“Bring to me, before my leave, the purple blossoms of the violet flower and unto you I shall bless my love.” The Baron’s daughter then laughed behind her pale hand, her eyes like gems by the heavenward dome, so mirthful and brilliant in the candlelight. 

But it was the darkest depth of winter and no flower was seen to bloom about all the land and the prince thanked the maiden for her say and bitterly went away. He should’ve known he had been taken for a fool by the fair girl, but he had become so intent upon stealing her love he took no time in questioning the wise and the elder for knowledge of the purple blossom flower. The scholars in their fine robes grimaced at the young man and told him to wait till the first spring bloom – that is when all blossoms do come. The youth thanked the elder for their wisdom but scolded them behind his teeth for their blunt foolishness. Of course, what else should have expected of those scholars?

So, with little guidance and foolish love plaguing Thranduil’s mind he stole away with the royal steed to the woods on the horizons of his father’s kingdom. Surely, there should be at least one violet blossom – the winter cannot be that harsh (what a love sickened fool).

A dark land was the forest sprawl; but a sole trodden path wrought through the thickets by the travelling folk for they feared to wander any further into the murky depths – no matter the turn of the seasons – as old wives tales left their mark upon their minds; “Go no thither than where the light reaches, go not to the drifting candle ember, stay from the black waters, hold not the word of intentions for any other to consider.” Yet they were all but fearful murmurings for the dark seasons.

Over the fens the prince rode, by the lonely snow laden path as the white clots began to meander from the grey sky and the mist-bands drift to the black woodland girdle, muffling the world about the lone traveller. With reluctance the prince’s steed began to follow the forest path, ever skittish as the trees began to enclose about them. Not a gasp of grey light not a whisper of breeze drifted in that forest for the blackened branches suffocated all, stifling life in that dark kingdom. 

The prince peered to the woodland floor but about the blackened roots of the hazel and oak the ground was empty, save for the snow cloaked black roots. An echo became the steps of the royal steed, but a single murmur in the empty land. Only the strength of Thranduil’s desperation pulled him onwards by the woodland path though all sense and reason of his mind begged him to return while the path was light.

A certain weariness came over Thranduil as he dwelled deeper; the thickening fog crept through the forest and the contours of the darkened depths blurred. Shivering in the saddle, Thranduil began to pull his steed back towards the light of the moors but before the mount turned in the distance he caught the sight of a travelling light seeking through the fog amongst the black oaks – a lantern, in fact.

A woodland dweller perhaps, Thranduil wondered, with the knowledge of every creek and plant. Maybe they will be of help. Alas the prince clambered down from his steed and plundering on through the undergrowth to the travelling light, calling to the wanderer. 

Shrouded in fog the dweller stood, garbed in a hooded cloak of crude shifting shadows that masked the stranger's true features from the prince's eyes. In one hand the stranger lofted an amber light that casted harsh shadows and in the other the wanderer held a basket. To the prince's wonder the basket was laden with unseasonal fruits and flowers - all green and lush with dew. 

“Good fortune to you, fellow traveller.” Greeted the prince, “Would you be so kind as to tell me from what sacred meadow had you gathered these summer greens?”

“From the pastures by the depths of the black lake under the mountain shade – there grow the greatest wonders you would ever come to witness.” Replied the dweller, standing in the shadows as still as the black oaks. Even with the gravelled depth of the stranger’s voice and the crudeness of the hands, Thranduil could not place unto them to be of the human nature, he was not certain for them to be man at all. 

“Would you be so kind as to take me there?” Asked the prince.

“Nay, I would not.”

“Why such cruelty!” Cried Thranduil, dismayed.

“I would not spare another journey to those misbegotten lands for I have tried my chance.” Replied the stranger.

In anger the prince sneered at the dweller but asked in great calmness, “Why do you fear those places so, even a dweller of the woods.”

“By no means of wonder and gentle times have unnatural things lingered by the lake, and those means I do not wish to speak of.” Grimacing said the dweller.

A grimness set about the prince and in turn the dweller asked, “For what purpose do you seek the green pastures? Surely no blessing they could bestow unto you that you do not already hold.”

“I seek to gather violets to earn the love of a fair maiden, a Baron’s daughter, before she departs my father's lands.” Proudly replied Thranduil, “If you were ever so kind as to gift me with such flowers from the pastures, I shall be ever in your debt.”

In great mirth the stranger laughed at the pleading boy, taking no pity on his passion, “What a fool you are, vain prince. Why should I give you the flowers? The fair-maiden O so virtuous shall forget you within the seasons turn. Return to your father’s lands and take care of your vain desires.” Schooled the dweller and turned to the shifting shadows of the dusk, the glimmer of the lantern consumed by the darkness amongst the trees.

“Wait, you cruel spirit!” Cried out the prince, chasing the dweller through the fog, “Do I not poses worthy virtue to earn aid in the perilous venture in the hopes of winning love? Or would you rather aid some lowly peasant who knows not the meaning of virtue?"

Once more the dweller laughed on the boy’s approach and shunned him away, “The noble ones have the lavish kingdoms of silk and gem to provide for every whim and comfort while the lowly only bear the hopes of greater things within their dreams of the boundless land beyond. I have no sympathy for greed though we are all victims of it.”

Though hopeless it seemed, Thranduil persisted in his begging, “Be not cruel, fair spirit, bless unto me your knowledge! I shall repay you in any way that I can!”

But alas a warmth was struck within the breast of the winter dweller; the fey lowered the lantern and considered the prince’s pleading, “Do you swear that you shall repay in any form that you are able?” Asked the dweller, a gleam of mischief in the stranger’s voice.

“Aye, I swear!” Cried the prince, “Anything that you ask.”

“Aye, fine, I shall gift you the flowers without the peril of the path to the lake; but for such a gift I shall ask you for a kiss,” A sly grin spread across the dweller’s lips, “A kiss for every month that is due till the blooming of the violet blossoms.”

“Three kisses for a handful of violets – ‘tis seems fair.” Replied Thranduil, “But why should I pay with my lips, I should ask.”

“A warmth of the sun each kiss bears, a beam of the light of which the blossoms have been deprived. For I do not poses such warmth, I shall ask you of it – no such wonders can I shift from the empty air.” Earnestly explained the stranger, though a fool was Thranduil to trust the mischief ridden dweller.

“’Tis seems just, so I will offer my payment for your gift.” At last, agreed Thranduil – no fear was set in his voice for he was so sure of his decision.

Alas, the lantern and the basket were set to the ground and the stranger drew away the hood and the dweller and the prince came to meet eye to eye; of such darkness the stranger’s eyes were wrought, endless as if the midnight, the crown of hair woven of the raven’s feather and the oaken skin – all dark as the woodland winter – and his face, though sickly and pale, was sculpted to be handsome at every angle and alas the prince was convinced the dweller to be a fey – the loveliest creature of the woods.

A wolfish smile danced upon the fey’s lips as the prince leaned forth and pressed the first of his kisses. Chaste it was for Thranduil at last felt his fear; he felt the corpse like chill of the fey's lips when they touched his own, frozen they were like stone, nothing like a sweet summer dream, and yet, beneath Thranduil's touch the fey was grinning. 

Thranduil pulled away but the fey pressed forth and alas commenced their second kiss. So shameless was the fey as it pulled the prince closer and pressed itself towards the man’s warm skin, so utterly other in its desire. Thranduil laughed with the foolishness of it all but did not pull away for the same laughter slipped from the lips of the fey. Like children sneaking to the woods the prince and they fey laughed in their closeness, so aware of each other and lingering in their touch. Thranduil was sure the fog had crept into his mind for when he looked the to the fey’s features they blurred and softened before his eyes, as if he was seeing through smoke; he could not tell if the tenderness in the creature’s eyes was true or a comforting folly.

The last kiss was ensued by the fey, the cold hands slipping about the prince’s face and pulled him forth. The touch lingered for sweet it was and when the fey pulled away Thranduil chased the coldness but found the air before him empty.

Dismayed, Thranduil glanced about but found himself alone amongst the darkening woods of black ashes and oaks. Forth he stepped but beneath his feet something brushed. Thranduil looked down and found himself in a thicket of violets, every one of them perfect. Never more beautiful flowers had grown within those woods and no prouder or more delicate blossoms had bloomed that it almost seemed a shame to pick them.

In fearful shock Thranduil looked about once more. Alone he was, so alone, and the sky kept on darkening and the fog thickening. The prince knew he had no other choice.

Into a satchel the violets were gathered, careful and gentle, and away the prince ran, steering his steed upon the homeward path. Out forth from the fog of the dark woods the prince fled, from the black acres of silence and blurring shadows, through the mist-bands upon the moors where the frozen heather bowed and the world began to clear. Through the gates of the winter castle, into the bailey and alas the prince and his steed won the race against the seizing light.

By the shivering stable-boys the steed was taken as the prince stalked away into the halls of the citadel. A certain glee had settled into the boy’s heart for he achieved the task despite all trying moments. But even victorious, and sure of his reward, Thranduil felt no burning desire to march through the doors to his fair girl and display the blossoms before her – never had an offering of love seem more hollow.

Before the chambers of the Baron’s daughter Thranduil stood, the frost clinging about his clothes, but a mist of it burning his cheeks red. From within where the candlelight seeped, he heard the laughter of the fair girl, so joyous and so kind – an angel in any delight. In mirth the voices of the handmaidens joined as they quarrelled good naturedly about this and that.

Too cold were his hands to touch the bright girl, Thranduil thought, touched by the frost to the very bone, to the depth of the heart and there the cold shall remain. Alas, the violets were placed beneath the girl’s door, bound with silk and gold.

Away by the dark hall the prince went, but a shadow in his father’s halls, cold to the bone but never more living. From the courtyard a noble steed galloped, across the moorlands of white heather, to the dark forest on the horizon.

The fog was thick in the nightly façade, no murmur of the creatures or the whisper of the trees sounded in that world.

What a wonder if the boy was ever to return, for somewhere a lone light drifted through the darkness, by the woodland path, to the waters of the black lake. 

 


	2. The Voice that Sings of a Forgotten Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from ['Wolf'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Czj7SyPNRto) by First Aid Kit.
> 
> i ended up writing this instead of starting an essay due on the 25th. (sacrifice, motherfuckers)
> 
> EDIT: Yes, this chapter has also been redrafted. However, I'm kinda tempted to delete this chapter because it doesn't do anything for the plot. jfc, whatever

The moon was bright over the land as the skies began to clear, unveiling the sprawls of the woodland and moors, all washed in the snow pearls left by the storms. A silent night it was, no whisper from the land or the beasts of the wood, the dead land cradled in a myth of peace. Yet the winter hush was broken for a sole rider travelled by the woodland path, setting the snow adrift – the prince of the Mirkwood kingdom he was, a young man bound by the path of a perilous quest. Forbidden was the tale of the rider’s hunt to any soul, but to any eye he would have seemed a noble knight – seeking to prove his virtue. And yet, it was not so.

Not alone was the prince upon the moonlit road for a shadow came drifting from the wilderness, treading through the snow drifts on foot. Hope seized Thranduil’s heart and yet when he approached he saw the traveller to be of flesh and bone, that was certain – nothing peculiar about their nature.

There was a bow and quiver were strung upon the traveller’s shoulder and a tethered bundle of game on the other: mountain hare and red grouse. When the distance closed between the rider and the hunter, the stranger paused in their step and raised one hand in greeting.

“Hail Lord Thranduil!” Called the hunter from the road side – a woman’s voice, ringing proud and clear, “'Tis a dangerous winter night for a prince to travel unguarded.”  

“Aye, it is.” Replied the prince, halting by the hunter, the silver moon at his back, “And it is considered a cause of weariness for a stranger to hide their face upon greeting.”

“My apologies, my Lord.” The hunter flustered and pulled away her hood. A red-headed lass stood peering at the prince, her features bright and fierce. A lovely sight her red crown of hair and flushed cheeks made – yet her travel worn hunting garb and weaponry spoke another tale of the girl’s loveliness.

“Would I be in fault to claim you to be the student of the Master Huntsman of the Mirkwood keep – your face seems familiar to the court gatherings.”  Wondered the prince. He was certain that the girl had been present many a time at the courtly feasts, appearing amongst the seas of silken garments and glistening gems, disappearing in the halls stifled by the fragrances of rich food and drink, filled with hum of chatter of noble folk.

“Aye, my Lord,” Bowed the girl, “that is the title which I bear.” Her red hair spilled from the collar of her coat, sparking in the moonlight like tongues of dancing flames. The weariness of the path began to set on the fair lass upon that sudden respite, her proud stance beginning to slack, the frost catching her in a shiver.

“Coming hither by the mountainous moorlands.” Thranduil judged by the catch slung upon the hunter’s shoulder.

“That would be so.” The hunter confessed.

“Then you will know of the lake amongst the woods, by the shadow of lone mountain.”

“I have passed those very waters many a time – today was such an occurrence when I stalked a doe by the pastures.”

“Will you show me the path by which you crossed that beast?”

Dread struck the girl’s heart, “I would not dare.”

Thranduil frowned at the terse reply, “I demand that you show me the way, would you deny your Lord such a simple thing?” Pried the prince, his voice stern.

“I cannot show you the way.” Declined the hunter once more.

“You dare to speak to me so?” Scowled Thranduil, his patience reaching its last, “Do you know what is due for a traitor such as you?”

“I beg you!" Cried the hunter, "do not go to that place – grant me this one gift: do not make me guide you to that lake.”

“Why do you fear it so? Have monsters shunned you from those waters?”

“Nay, though I admit to fear what the waters bear, greater do I fear what drives you there and its temptation for no man willingly will search for such a place.” The hunter judged the prince with cautious eyes, drawing away from the rider with careful steps, “Have mercy upon me, my Lord, should you come to that accursed place do not let me witness your prize – should I be robbed of life’s common pleasures as you have.”

In a silver Thranduil’s blade was unsheathed and pressed against the hunter’s bare throat – a cold cruel flash of steel against the tender skin, “Should you tell me the path, I will allow your freedom.” The prince scowled, his features impassable as though wrought of stone. “Allow me not pronounce your fate should you fail to follow my command.”

By the lack of a better choice the girl complied: “Travel a league by this road,” Quickly the hunter spoke, “no thither. There shall be a darkling path eastward. Though no traveller will aid you upon that way and the trees will attempt to halt you, you must continue by the path. Northward keep your attention and once a shadow falls upon the land your path shall have crossed the lone mountain.”

The ferocity swept from the prince, swiftly he sheathed the sword and drew away from the girl, “Safe journey, hunter,” In a slight movement he inclined his noble crown, “Return to Mirkwood within the hour, the gates are due to be barred – the night shall be cold and many things in the dark do dwell.”

Away the prince rode, leaving the hunter in a drift of snow. Frightened was the lass by the pale rider, certain now it not to be the fair prince of the noble kingdom amongst the wood – though she claimed him to be so – for no living man of earthly flesh and blood could have worn the ghostly pallor of the frozen corpse and flinch not from the icy breath of the frost.

 

The path beyond the road lied as the hunter promised: but a slender trail amongst the trees, guarded by low branches and fallen timber. Thranduil dismounted from his horse and took it by the reins, leading it by the path at his lead. Though the main path through the wood had seemed to be of true hellish murk, this tread held no likeness; The path was dark beyond prevail, only silvers of the moonlight slipped by – so sparing, it barely gave guidance, only tricked the traveller to believe the shivers of the branches to be a figure in the dark.

Unknown hours passed by as Thranduil push on by that unforgiving path, his eyes lashed by the white light of the moon as he slipped amongst the shadows of the black oaks. Deeper into the wood the prince dwelled where every sound and sight was uncertain; a shiver of the breeze, a dweller of the wood, a thief in the night? It would all be a just guess. Though fear made no home in the prince’s heart every hush of the night set his steed in a fearful dance; it pulled uncertainly from his grasp, crying in desperation to leave from that unforgiving place. The prince pulled the nervous horse onwards but it reared with a cry and ripped the reins free of Thranduil’s grasp and ran from the winter blackened forest.

And yet, there was no return for the prince – too far upon that journey had he gone to abandon the path; Thranduil continued on through the forest, his bare hands slipping across the bark of the black oaks in search of guidance for he became a blind man upon that trail. As the prince continued on through the murk a great shadow fell onto the world, consuming the dire silver of the moon.

Through the slim gaps of the canopy the prince peered to the sky, expecting to witness a hell-fiend gorging on the night-lantern but there stood a great mountain – a tall lance amongst the open sky. Remembering the words of the hunter, the prince continued on by the path, certain of his course being true. 

Alas, from the woodland girdle Thranduil stepped, into a glade beneath the mountain shadow. Fields of grass and wild blossoms sprawled before the prince, encased in frozen dew, bare of the snow as if winter held no rule over the land. Down from the forest edge the hills sloped to black waters of the lake. Still it was, like a fine mirror without blemish on the surface - not a silver of ice drifted upon the water though no river ran in the forest for all was enveloped in the winter's grasp.

It was a fine sight yet it unsettled Thranduil for it seemed to hum with something uncertain, akin to the thrum of life. With great uncertainty Thranduil stepped onto those silver pastures, not believing the sight of the summer greens beneath his feet. O What a wonder it was! Under the light of the dancing stars the diamonds upon those fair pastures glistened like crystal and diamond. Even the blossoms of the wild flowers shone like young stars, preserved in shells of delicate ice, as beautiful in their winter as in the summer's glow.

Captive to the wonder, the prince had been blind the oncoming tide of the clouds, washing across from the horizons and pulling across the skyward dome. Into a great shadow the world fell and the prince once more found himself to be lost. From the far hills fog rolled upon that valley with the clouds, cloaking the world in an impenetrable murk.

A light sparked in the distance amongst the trees. Stricken from his daze the prince turned, his sharp eyes watching the light drift through the fog. Into blackness the ember fell before glancing once more from the black woodlands, searching the pastures and still waters, burning through the fog like hell-fire fiend. Once more the light flashed across the lake, yet now a tall spire stood amongst the water – a tower. It hung amongst the mirror stillness, holding a tall iron bell in its grasp.

A second flash fell upon the water. There stood roofs and town walls suspended above the waters grasp. Darkness and the fire-light once more. There sprawled the courtyards and the baileys and the master-halls. All black, like charred silhouettes of a sieged ruin.

Thither from the forest edge the light roamed, seeking in the mist-bands on the hills, closer and yet closer to where dumbstruck the prince stood it wandered. Thranduil could not bring himself to move for he distrusted his very own senses for he thought himself to see a town upon the water, fathomed from the fog. What a mystery of the stranger forces it was! 

Yet at last, Thranduil was struck from his absent state for the fog swept upon him carrying beam of the fire-light; Alas came the shadow of the dark figure stalking through the murk, the fog drifting about the wanderer in curling pale wisps. 

The stranger stood before the prince, the features and cloak of shifting shadows as they were upon their first meeting, yet now a dark fury marred those stranger eyes.

“By what purpose does the Lord of Mirkwood come hither,” Spoke the dark fey, the voice grim and cruel, “Does he wish to satisfy his vain needs once more?”

“That I deny.” Whispered Thranduil in faint reply.

“Then why do you grace your presence upon these lands, I shall ask.”

“It seems, that I, when gone upon a quest to win the love of a fair maiden, lost the sense of my way,” Cautiously the prince approached the fey, his head bowed in apology, “For when I returned to demand my prize, my heart was empty of the very thing I sought, though the fair maiden was but through the doors.”

Silent was the fey a moment but then the creature stalked to the prince, a sure grimness about the furious eyes, the dweller's free hand rose to Thranduil’s features – touching only barely his frost caressed cheek – before stepping forth and placing a sure kiss upon the prince’s lips.

Cold were the fey’s touch but Thranduil felt no fear for the same frost lied upon his very own heart. He chased that feeling of lips upon his own and was glad to not find himself alone once more for the fey held no intent to let the youth in the claiming grasp escape.

Somewhere, over the water, a bell tolled – a sombre voice in the dark of winter calling to the resting ones in the holy hour. A second call followed as the fog began to drift apart and on the horizon the first of the red began to spill through the clouds.

“There is little time left.” The fey spoke, the absent hand slipping to take Thranduil’s own, eyes resting upon the black horizon of the forest sprawl.

“Aye, there is, and so many questions to ask.”

“I shall listen.”

“Tell me of these lands; by what means of trickery do these greens flourish amongst the cold and the charred ghost stands upon the lake,” Asked Thranduil in the quiet of the dawn, “this is no manner of menfolk." 

For a moment, the fey said nought, the dark eyes inspecting the sincerity of Thranduil’s questions but then the fey spoke: “Have the tales of the sky-wyrms been of your knowledge, my prince?”

“Aye, I have heard of their kind roaming these lands many an age ago. Of what concern are they to this land?”

“A town of good folk once stood over these waters,” The fey looked over the lake below them where the black spires rose from the fog, “It was under siege from one such a creature for the master of the town grew greedy and hoarded coffers gold and silver. The town was burned to the cinders in a tragic fate, but the wyrm was struck down from the sky. The carcass rests within these waters, the blazing breath that once scorched these lands is trapped within its breast. Forever on, the remnants of the wyrm’s breath warm these lands from within the bones of the beast.

“But the misbegotten town, I-“ The fey broke off, as if not able to bear the words that were due to come, the fey’s hand escaping from Thranduil’s grasp.

“Who felled the hell-fiend?” Thranduil broke the silence that fell upon the dark fey, “Surely no earthly man could have possessed such might.”

“Aye, but one would upon such a night, when desperation and fear strikes at heart.” The fey replied, all absent from the moment – stealing away to dark thoughts, “A bowman took on the task of felling the beast. He shunned away his wife and children away from the town upon the water for it was charcoaled and all within were dead. They escaped I know not where, but the bowman remained. With an arrow cast of black iron he killed the beast, piercing the foul creature through the breast. Only such a weapon could have killed the serpent for the arrow was charred by the sky-serpent’s breath, strengthening the metal beyond all mortal skill.”

“And what happened of that man?” Persisted the prince, determined to hear the full end of the tale, “He had perished within those waters?”

“Nay, the town had burned, none escaped save the family of the misfortunate archer. In shame he stood by the water’s edge, watching the town fall into the black depths – silent of screams for all within perished.” The fey drifted from the prince, in measured steps wandering down to the lake’s edge, “By some accursed thought, the bowman drank from that very lake and set away to wander by the woodland paths. It may be said that someone of the wyrm’s misbegotten blessing of the wretched fire lingered within the bowman for he could not perish with age or wound.”

Thranduil followed the fey suit, “Where does he wander now? The cursed bowman.”

“Be not blind, my prince.” The fey turned, the dark shadows raced across those handsome features as the candlelight of the lantern wavered and danced, “Will you be away with me?” A hand was offered by the dweller to the pale prince.

There was no hesitance in the prince’s choice when he took the fey’s hand, no fear of the cold or the casting shadows. But alas, why would there be such?

 

The last stars lingered amongst the clouds as the winter land escaped its shadows into the twilight of the dawn. In a sigh the sky spilled in sprawling banners of red and gold, chasing away the black horizons of the night. Through the woodland the first light crept, over the black trees and the snow swept paths, racing across the open glades and the still expanse of the silent frozen lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all can get hold of me on [ tumblr](http://beeeeebeeee.tumblr.com/) or something.


End file.
